Total pages in book: 295
Estimated words: 282090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1410(@200wpm)___ 1128(@250wpm)___ 940(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 282090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1410(@200wpm)___ 1128(@250wpm)___ 940(@300wpm)
“Travel,” someone from Claw Section answers. “We’re safe here, but we’re not welcome beyond our borders.”
Nor is anyone welcome past ours.
“Good point.” Devera nods. “Navarre might be the largest kingdom on the Continent, but we are not the only one. Nor do we travel to the isles anymore. What else?”
“We lost major parts of our culture,” a girl with a rebellion relic winding around her arm answers from two rows ahead. Tail Section, I think. “Not just our language. Our songs, our festivals, our libraries… Everything in Tyrrish had to be changed. The only unique thing we kept were our runes because they’re in too much of our architecture to justify changing.”
Like the ones on my daggers. The ones on the columns of the temple in Aretia. The ones I’m currently weaving in my lap.
“Yes.” Somehow Devera makes that word sound both sympathetic and blunt at the same time. “I’m not a historian. I’m a tactician, but I can’t imagine the depth of what we lost knowledge-wise.”
“The books were all translated into the common language,” someone from Third Wing argues. “Festivals still happen. Songs are still sung.”
“And what was lost in translation?” the Tyrrish girl ahead of me asks. “Do you know?”
“Of course I don’t know.” His lip rises in a sneer. “It’s a dead language to all but a few scribes.”
I drop my gaze to my notebook.
“Just because it’s not in Tyrrish doesn’t mean you can’t walk into the Archives and read whatever translated Tyrrish book you want.” It’s his haughty, arrogant tone that pricks my temper.
“No, actually you can’t.” I drop the fabric in my lap. “For starters, no one can just walk into the Archives and read whatever they want. You have to put in a request that any scribe can deny. Secondly, only a portion of the original scribes spoke Tyrrish, meaning it would have taken hundreds of years to translate every text, and even then, there are no historical tomes older than four hundred years in our Archives that I know of. They’re all sixth, seventh, or eighth editions. Logic dictates that she’s right.” I gesture up to the girl a few rows ahead. “Things are lost in translation.”
He looks ready to argue.
“Cadet Trebor, if I were you, I would consider the fact that Cadet Sorrengail has spent more time in the Archives than anyone else in this room, and then I would carefully consider an intelligent response.” She arches a brow.
The guy from Third Wing shoots a glare in my direction and sits back in his chair.
“We lost our folklore,” Rhiannon says.
Every muscle in my body locks.
Devera cocks her head to the side. “Go on.”
“I’m from a border village near Cygnisen,” Rhiannon says. “A lot of our folklore came from the other side of the border, probably as a result of the Migration of The First Year, and as far as I know, none of it’s written. It only survives as an oral history.” She glances my way. “Violet and I were actually talking about this last year. People raised in Calldyr or Luceras or other provinces aren’t raised with that same folklore. They don’t know the stories, and generation by generation, we’re losing it.” She looks left, then right. “I’m sure all of us have similar stories, depending on where we grew up. Sawyer knows stories Ridoc doesn’t. Ridoc knows stories Violet doesn’t.”
“Impossible,” Ridoc counters. “Violet knows everything.”
Sawyer laughs and I roll my eyes.
“All excellent points.” Devera nods, a satisfied smile curving her mouth. “And what did the Migration of The First Year give us?”
“A more unified culture,” a girl from Tail Section answers. “Not only within our provinces but throughout the Continent. And it allowed those in what’s now Poromiel a chance to live under the safety of the wards if they chose to move.”
One year. That’s all Navarre gave before we closed our borders.
And if you couldn’t afford to move your family, couldn’t risk the treacherous journey… Nothing about war, or the aftermath, is kind.
“Correct,” Devera says. “Which means there’s every chance that when you fly against a drift, you could encounter a distant relative. The question we must all ask ourselves as we enter service is: are our sacrifices worth it to keep the citizens of Navarre safe?”
“Yes.” The answer is muttered all around me, some riders saying it louder than others.
But I keep quiet, because I know it’s not only Navarre paying the price—it’s everyone outside our wards.
The gym buzzes with anticipation that afternoon as the combat professors call the first names of the day to the mats. These will be the last challenges for months. The first-years will have the Gauntlet to worry about starting next week, then Presentation and Threshing. And the second-years will start disappearing by the squad for a few days at a time so they can teach us how to take torture.